


clothes & crushes

by dalekchung



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Rigel Black Chronicles - murkybluematter
Genre: Clothes, F/M, Inspired by The Rigel Black Chronicles, crack I think, heavily inspired by Harrysboots4ever, no beta we die like Caerry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalekchung/pseuds/dalekchung
Summary: random scenes where Harry steals Caelum's clothes? with no context? yes please.
Relationships: Caelum Lestrange/Harriet Potter | Rigel Black
Comments: 137
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Caelum Lestrange and the Homeless Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29286240) by [Harrysboots4ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrysboots4ever/pseuds/Harrysboots4ever). 



> "Caelum Lestrange and the Homeless Girl" by Harrysboots4ever inspired this and you should definitely go read that if you haven't.

Caelum drags his wrist wearily over his eyes. Even that small action is taking a toll on his body, and he quivers with the exertion, dropping his arm with a sigh. Behind him, a potion bubbles cheerfully, a delicate lavender color. He’d been working on it for eight hours straight, pouring an insane amount of magic into it. He would have to continue it in exactly ten hours, giving him enough time for a well-deserved nap.

The potion bubbles once more, releasing the stench of rotten eggs and smelly socks. Maybe a shower would do him some good too.

His feet are aching in an unfamiliar fashion, which makes him almost long for his potions lab in Dartmoor. _Almost_. He certainly doesn’t miss his mother and father throwing hexes at each other, screaming so loudly that they could be mistaken as howlers. He doesn’t miss his father ransacking his lab and stealing his vial of Liberespirare.

No. That’s just the lie Caelum tells himself to stop hot shame from flooding his body. His father had shown the slightest crumb of interest in his work, and Caelum had all but thrust the potion into his father’s hands. He is disgusted with himself.

The potions lab in his flat doesn’t have soft floors—it’s hardwood, sheltered by protective charms because his landlord is afraid the famous Lestrange temper will damage his property—but Caelum doesn’t have the time or patience to figure out how to install it. His mastery thesis comes first.

Caelum gathers the energy to stretch his neck, which cracks several times as he turns, and pushes his way out of the lab.

He isn’t prepared for the sight in front of him.

At first, he thinks it’s a hallucination. There’s a girl sitting at his kitchen table, absentmindedly nibbling on a piece of toast as she leafs through his mastery notes, occasionally pausing to scribble something in the margins with a red ballpoint pen. (Caelum will never admit that he uses pens—muggle filth—for his notes). Her hair is messy and wild, tumbling down to the base of her neck. She pauses every once in a while to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ears, only for it to pop out again a fraction of a second later.

She’s wearing round glasses that don’t seem to be the correct prescription because she’s squinting at his notes, blinking hard as if that’ll fix her face.

“Halfblood,” Caelum says, wonderingly, still not convinced that she’s really sitting at his kitchen table, especially with what happened last time they met. He takes a small step forward, only to trip over his own feet.

Harriet Potter turns to inspect him. Her eyes are still brilliant and glowing, just the way Caelum remembers. Her lips are set to a stern frown as she squints down at him. Caelum can’t remember how he ended up on the floor.

“Lestrange,” Harry greets, and Caelum is surprised at the rush of disappointment that flows through his body. He wishes she had said his first name.

She tilts her head, as if confused by him, then swiftly hops off the kitchen stool. She’s wearing grey socks that go up to her mid-calf. Caelum lifts his head, following the curve of her legs. She’s not wearing any trousers, but that hardly matters. Her upper half is basically swallowed by a maroon sweatshirt that drops down to her mid-thigh. Vaguely, Caelum recognizes that it’s his old Durmstrang sweatshirt. The school crest is stitched onto the upper left side of the sweatshirt. Underneath that, his last name is artfully displayed. It’s a nametag because some professors at Durmstrang can’t be bothered to learn names and faces.

Harry conveniently ignores all of this as she reaches out. Caelum isn’t sure what she’s reaching out for until she rests a cold hand against his forehead. He feels a wave of warm magic wash over him, and he almost relaxes until common sense kicks in.

“Hey!” he bats her hand away and struggles to sit up, glaring at her with as much venom as he can muster up. “What are you doing?”

Harry plops down and blinks her bright green eyes at him. She looks so much like a wide-eyed fawn in that moment. Caelum wants to hex her.

“You’re magically exhausted,” Harry explains, like he didn’t already know that.

“I know that, idiot. I meant why are you here?” Caelum maintains his icy glare. He waves a hand at the Durmstrang crest, “Why the fuck are you wearing my clothes?”

Harry’s lips twitch upwards in amusement. The action draws his attention to her lips. They’re a lot fuller and pinker now that she looks like herself. Caelum bites the inside of his cheek, effectively chasing away extraneous thoughts about how much prettier she looks now.

“I heard you moved here to work on your thesis,” Harry explains. She lifts herself into an awkward squat offering a hand to help Caelum up. He swats this away too as he struggles to lift himself up. He can feel sweat beading on his brow. “I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

“At midnight?” Caelum manages to sit upright. “I thought your father locked you up.”

Harry’s smile drops. She’s silent for a moment, eyes dropping to Caelum’s fire-resistant, acid-proof boots. Mournfully (and still staring at the boots), she says, “It doesn’t matter. Come on, Lestrange. Can you even walk?”

Caelum glares at her and stands, just to prove her wrong. It turns out to be the wrong move. His vision grows dark, and he sways, confused by the rush of blood to his head. His body tilts sideways. Instinctively, he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for his body’s inevitable collision with the floor.

Instead, his body thumps into something soft. Arms wrap around him as Harry lets out a surprised _oomph!_ She smells like mint and preservatives. It’s a comforting scent.

“Caelum?” Harry brushes his hair off of his forehead and lays a cold hand on his forehead again. Caelum tries to open his eyes to look at her, but he’s too tired to manage even that. She lets out a soft snort, “Let’s get you to bed. Prick.”

“Brat.”

Caelum thinks she looks beautiful in his sweatshirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest: I wrote this for me and only me because i need mORE CAERRY, but I figured some of you might like it too.


	2. Chapter 2

Caelum startles awake as his wand pokes his cheek. He doesn’t remember setting an alarm before sleeping yesterday, but he isn’t too concerned. It’s routine for him to do so. He reaches up and snatches his wand from the air.

His bed is so soft. So warm. And he knows he set the alarm fifteen minutes in advance before he has to attend to his potion. Just ten more minutes…

His wand wiggles free from his grasp and slaps his cheek lightly. Caelum groans, glaring blearily at it as the wand drops and lies there, innocently. His wand somehow knows that he’s wide awake now. Magic is confusing.

Caelum sighs, then rubs his eyes with the back of his wrist as he rolls over, reaching over to the nightstand where his notes should be. Instead, his arm meets an unexpected bump in his blankets. It’s warm to the touch, breathing slowly, and not at all something Caelum expects.

He slowly and carefully pulls down the blanket.

Harry is there, curled up in a tight ball. Honestly, she looks like she could be a cat. It can’t be good for her back. Caelum frowns down at her. She is twitching every once in a while, muscles tensing and untensing in a strange way. Her lips are moving too, like she’s saying something, but it isn’t anything Caelum can hear. He’s about to snap something at her and push her out of his bed when he catches sight of her glistening cheeks.

She’s crying.

Caelum stills, unsure what to do.

“Halfblood,” Caelum moves the blanket down a little further. He doesn’t recall giving her his silk Lestrange-crested pajama top, but she has somehow acquired it. The soft baby blue color of his shirt compliments her skin. Pointedly, he does not look at her bare legs.

Harry doesn’t stir.

“Oi, brat,” Caelum reaches for her shoulder. His hand never makes contact with her shoulder. Instead, a wave of magic pushes his hand away, stinging his fingers. “Ow!”

Harry jerks awake at the startled yelp, eyes hard. It doesn’t look like she has been sleeping at all. Caelum grits his teeth. Was she just pretending to be asleep? That’s a low move, even for her.

“Caelum,” Harry’s eyes narrow in on his throbbing red fingers. Without asking, she snatches his hand and places it into one of hers. His hand is almost comically larger than hers—paler and softer too. Caelum wonders where she has gotten so many callouses. He doesn’t wonder for long as Harry’s magic washes over his fingertips. The throbbing slowly subsides, and he stares down at his fingers, which are slowly turning back to the correct color. “Sorry, my magic just… does that sometimes.”

Volatile and wild. Just like her.

“Whatever,” Caelum snatches his hand back from her and musters up the most poisonous glower he can. “What are you doing in my bed?”

He’s vaguely aware that he’s the one with the wand in this situation. He could easily blast her off of the bed. Caelum eyes the brat. The thought is tempting.

Harry sheepishly scratches the back of her neck, “I didn’t want to sleep on the floor?”

“You’re a witch,” Caelum stares at her, uncomprehendingly. How hard is it to conjure up a mattress?

Harry gestures at his wand triumphantly, “I don’t have a wand!”

“You don’t have a wand?” Caelum is temporarily distracted. She’s right. He hasn’t seen her use a wand, even just now to heal his fingers. But that isn’t a valid excuse. She’s the one who taught _him_ wandless magic! He fixes her with a glare, “You don’t need a wand.”

“But your bed is so _big_ ,” Harry turns away and snuggles back into his pillow. “So warm…so soft…smells like potions…feels like boots…”

“You’re not making any sense, brat,” Caelum resists the urge to shake her by the shoulder. He can knock some sense into the girl after he’s finished with his potion. “Whatever. Just keep your halfblood snot on that side of the bed.”

To make his point, Caelum raises his wand and a shield shimmers into existence. And what if it’s not dividing the bed exactly in half? It is _his_ bed.

From across the flat, he feels his potion churning wildly. No time to dawdle. He’ll just have to deal with Harry and her thieving tendencies later.

Caelum does _not_ admit to himself that he wants to get back in bed because _she’s_ still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smol bean misses her boots :(


	3. Chapter 3

Harry is nowhere to be found.

Not that he’s worried about her. Not at all. It just feels strange to be alone in his flat again. A good kind of strange. And it’s nice to freely walk around, peeking around corners and checking every nook and cranny for a sign of curly hair and luminous, emerald eyes. Not that he’s looking for her. No, sir. He’s just stretching his legs.

Okay. So maybe he is worried.

Normally, Caelum falls asleep as far away from Harry as possible and wakes up to see her hunched over his desk, reading a book older than the Founders or scribbling furiously on spare parchment.

Today is different.

She’s not there.

Caelum scoffs at the empty bed. The shield has long since dissolved, and now he’s left with rumpled white sheets, messy pillows, and a strand of long hair that can’t possibly be his. Caelum scoffs again. Dumb halfblood. Doesn’t she know the dangers of leaving biological material around like that? Anyone could take it! What would happen if someone with ill intentions was here instead? Caelum jabs a wand at it, scowling. It vanishes.

The chit deserves a lecture. He doesn’t care if she theoretically understands or not.

Mind set, Caelum straightens and marches out the door, his wand in hand. Harriet Potter might be some princess at home, but he has to wake her up to the harsh reality of life. Hairs should be vanished! Beds should be made!

He brandishes his wand, ignoring the way a few passersby squeal and scramble away.

“ _Point me_ Harry Potter,” he snaps. He feels his ears warming as the nearest vendors shoot him scandalized looks. It seems Harry is still living in infamy.

The wand spins on his palm for a moment before pausing. It’s pointing towards the Lower Alleys.

Caelum sets off, but pauses a fraction of a second later, when his wand jerks to the side, thirty degrees from where it had been pointing. The only way a _point me_ would do that is if she is apparating…at least, he assumes. He hasn’t ever caught someone apparating while he’s tracking them. Either way, Caelum hopes she has splinched herself for carelessly attempting it. She isn’t even old enough for apparition lessons! Another point on the list of ‘things-Caelum-needs-to-lecture-Harry-about.’

Caelum follows his wand deeper into the Lower Alleys, ignoring the weird hag that’s selling toenail clippings and a little girl with flowers that grins cheekily at him. He only falters when he reaches a rinky dinky pub called the Dancing Phoenix.

What was Harry doing in a place like _this_?

Biting back his hesitation, Caelum pushes the doors open.

The pub is empty, save for the kitchen, which seems to be busy cooking for customers that aren’t there. Caelum hears distant shouts. His wand spins again.

“Oi, you ‘arry’s friend?” an elderly man shouts from inside the kitchen. He peeks at Caelum over a tray of butterbeer bottles. “She said you might come find ‘er. She’s out back. Duelin’ with the king, I reckon. Go on, before you miss ‘er.”

He shuffles away before Caelum can correct him about his supposed friendship.

There’s another roar from outside, which effectively captures his attention again. It sounds like there are a lot of people out there. And if what the man says about dueling is true…Harry might be in trouble.

Caelum all but runs to the backdoor.

He isn’t prepared for what he sees.

There’s a small crowd outside, forming a circle around two duelists. Caelum pushes his way to the front to get a better look. One is a taller man, around the same age as Caelum himself. He wears an easy grin as he ruffles his bronze hair with a hand. (Caelum is only mildly alarmed when he sees a knife in his hand.) He looks familiar, but Caelum can’t remember if they’ve met. Given that he must be a Lower Alley resident, Caelum is sure he doesn’t matter. 

The _other_ figure however, he recognizes instantly. Her hair is braided back, but the green eyes are the same. She’s wearing tight, beige trousers (that definitely shows off the wrong parts of her body) and a dark blue t-shirt—tucked into her trousers because it’s too big—that he knows is made of acromantula silk. Because it’s his. And it’s covered in dirt. Disgusting.

She’s grinning broadly at her opponent, and Caelum is definitely not bitter. It definitely does not bother him that she never smiles like that with him _._

On top of that, her left hand is clutched around the hilt of a _knife_. She’s _free-dueling_ in broad daylight. Her father is the Head Auror, for Merlin’s sake! Caelum is ready to hex her.

And then she twirls on her heel and disapparates.

She appears directly behind the bonze-haired boy, already ducking as her opponent lashes out with a kick without looking. Somehow, she anticipates this and grabs his leg, throwing him to the side, all within the blink of an eye.

Caelum blinks, and suddenly the man is on top of her, his knife pointed to her throat.

He only sees red.

“Get off of her, you pathetic, disgusting miscreant!” Caelum screams, stalking forward to unleash his Lestrange fury on the man. How dare he touch her? Heiress Harriet Potter, one of the most promising potioneers in existence today? He is going to stun that man, skin him, then cut off his dic—

Caelum runs face-first into an invisible barrier. His nose snaps painfully to the right, and he falls flat on his back, moaning.

Harry is there a moment later, hovering over his face to inspect his wounds. (One, his nose, and two, his dignity). He feels her familiar, comforting magic working at his nose and sighs, closing his eyes, hoping he doesn’t embarrass himself further.

“Erm, Caelum. Why are you in your pajamas?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Caelum, put them down! I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not about to let the Potter Heiress stroll down Knockturn Alley without protection.”

“It’s not in Knockturn Alley! Honestly, you’re worse than James.”

“And that’s why you’re staying with me and not at home? Get real, halfblood.”

Harry fixes Caelum with a poisonous glare, her hands on her hips. It looks so out of place on her normally impassive face, yet Caelum can’t help but notice it seems familiar. As if she’s imitating someone else’s expressions. He can’t exactly remember whose face is stuck in permanently stuck in constipation mode, though.

Today, she’s wearing her beige trousers again—cleaned because Caelum wouldn’t allow her to step foot in their flat, trekking dust and shit everywhere. She has stolen one of his silky, collared black shirts. The collar is open at the top, showing off her collarbones and an impressive painting of bruises (which Caelum can only assume is from free-dueling). The sleeves are too long for her, so Harry has rolled them up to her elbows.

When Caelum wears it, he looks uncomfortable and boxed in. When she wears it, she looks like a confident businesswoman.

Caelum decides she can keep this one.

“Fine,” Harry’s face relaxes. She sweeps him up and down with a calculating look, then turns to stack a second crate of potions on top of the one he’s already holding. “I don’t think you can manage another one.”

Caelum bristles. Of course he can! He hasn’t played beater on the Durmstrang team for seven years for nothing.

“Give me another one, brat,” he snarls, jaw clenched.

He knows he has lost _something_ when Harry flashes a cheeky grin at him and deposits a third crate on top of the pile.

“Thank you, dear,” she says sweetly, picking up the last crate with ease.

“You—” Caelum’s face feels hot, and with his pale complexion, he knows he’s bright red. “I’m not your house-elf, you insufferable halfblood!”

“ _You_ offered to carry the crates,” Harry reminds him as she exits their flat. Caelum can hardly see over the top of the crates, but he isn’t about to ask Harry to take the top one. “It’s not that far of a walk anyway.”

Harry is a liar.

The Serpent’s Storeroom is a fair distance away, and by the time they reach the store, Caelum is panting, red, and shaking—just a tiny bit. So maybe he’s out of shape. It isn’t like brewing requires a lot of heavy lifting.

“Mr. Krait,” Harry calls, setting her crate down. Caelum does his best not to crack any of the vials as he sets his down too. They rattle alarmingly, and Harry rushes over to inspect the potions. Caelum crosses his arms, frowning. She should be checking up on him! He rubs at his burning biceps, groaning a little, but she doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Something else catches Harry’s attention, and Caelum follows her line of sight. Outside the glass panels in the front of the shop, a familiar bronze-haired boy is lounging across the street, seemingly minding his own business. Caelum knows better though. The boy is stalking Harry, and he wants to put an end to it.

Caelum starts forward, but Harry is already halfway to the door. She looks back at him, a pretty smile gracing her face, “Can you tell Mr. Krait that I dropped these off? I’ll be right back. Just got to have a quick word with Leo…”

And then she’s dancing across the street into his arms.

Caelum can’t help the heavy scowl that drops on his face. He abandons the crates in favor of sulking behind a shelf of “h’s” where he can pretend to browse, but also watch the pair through the gaps. He comes face to face with some attractive hemlock. He wonders how easily he can poison this “Leo.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

Caelum nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a small, childish voice coming from his boots. He knows his boots can’t talk, but for a moment, he entertains the fact that they’ve grown some form of sentience.

He peers down at the little girl beside him, who is peeking through ingredients to spy on Harry. She’s obviously a street rat, trying to appear cute in a little white dress with flowers stitched on the sleeves. She’s holding a large basket full of flowers.

“Hey, get your face out of those!” Caelum pulls her back from a bundle of poisonous flowers. “You’re going to get yourself killed. Don’t you know these are poisonous? Hasn’t your mother taught you anything?”

The little girl blinks innocent eyes up at him, “I don’t have a mother.”

_Oh._ Caelum isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“That’s probably a good thing,” he says after a moment. “My mother used to _crucio_ me every other day.”

The girl blinks at him again, and Caelum wonders if she even knows what the Cruciatus Curse is.

“Harry teaches us about potions,” the little girl offers, turning back to the witch in question.

“Looks like she hasn’t been doing a good job,” Caelum grumbles under his breath, turning back to Harry and the despicable stalker.

Their faces are far too close than Caelum likes, and he grits his teeth. What could they possibly be talking about that requires this close proximity? The stalker places a hand on Harry’s elbow. Caelum wants to vomit.

“The King likes her,” the little girl whispers, as if that isn’t entirely obvious. “He’s liked her for a _really_ long time. But I don’t think she likes him back. She likes potions too much.”

The girl pauses, and Caelum finds himself turning back to her.

“And she likes her shiny boots,” the girl eventually nods to herself. She points at his brewing boots, “She loves her boots more than the King.”

Caelum mentally tucks that information away for later. He doesn’t remember Harry owning any specific brewing boots, which he finds strange.

Why is he listening to this random little girl about Harry’s love life again?

“And,” the girl draws herself up to her full height, which is not much. She is adorably confident, though. “If she really liked the King, she would have asked to stay with him, and not you.”

Caelum flushes, “She shouldn’t be anywhere near him, much less staying with—”

The little girl gasps, and Caelum’s attention snaps back to Harry. Only she’s even closer to the stalker. Her hands are pressed to the planes of his chest, and there’s a pair of strong, golden arms wrapped around her waist—touching _his_ shirt. Her head is tilted up, and the stalker’s is tilted down. They’re kissing.

Caelum is going to be sick.

The little girl peers up at him, eyes wide in dismay.

He disapparates on the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor babey... also I have no idea why Margo is in the Serpent's Storeroom


	5. Chapter 5

After shouting for half an hour straight, Harry still wouldn’t leave his bed, so Caelum has taken it upon himself to sleep in his potions lab. It’s not an ideal setup. He falls asleep smelling shit, and he wakes up smelling like shit but unable to register it. Meanwhile, the dumb halfblood gets to enjoy his comfortable bed all by herself. He can only hope she hasn’t let Lionel Hurst into their bed.

That’s his name: Lionel Hurst, and he’s the son of the Aldermaster of the Potions Guild. That makes it difficult for Caelum to carry out his original plan of poisoning the boy. Difficult. But not impossible.

Caelum entertains the thought of silently breaking into his house, throttling him, and leaving, but unfortunately, it’s just a daydream. Being suspected of killing Lionel Hurst is a barrier to receiving his Mastery, and Caelum isn’t going to allow the fucker to take that away from him too. Homicide must wait until after his Mastery thesis is finished.

He has taken to doing pushups every so often as well. After seeing the fucker’s arms and his free-dueling skills, Caelum wants to make sure he’s in peak physical condition. Not because he’s thinking of a certain, green-eyed potions prodigy while he’s training. No, Caelum is already perfect. He just wants to make sure he can pack a punch when he inevitably meets the fucker again.

Harry is gone again, and Caelum very deliberately does not think about where she might be.

He has nothing much to do, so he snags a book and meanders out to his balcony. He hasn’t used it once until now, and it’s covered in bird shit. Disgusted, Caelum vanishes it all, the conjures a soft, leather couch that he can lounge on.

He lies down, opening the book. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s one of Harry’s books on mastering the mind arts. It sours his mood when he realizes that it’s her handwriting in the margins. He doesn’t want to think about her.

A black raven lands on the railing across from him, and Caelum scowls at it. The chicken has the most offensive eyes he has ever seen—a scintillating green, like a serpent’s finely polished scales.

Caelum raises his wand and brandishes a lazy _incendio_ at it. The chicken blinks at him, then merely steps aside, the spell missing by mere centimeters.

“Stupid chicken,” Caelum growls to himself, tucking his wand away. He returns to the book, but can’t concentrate on the text. All he can do is scowl fiercely at the neat handwriting in the margins. “Fucking idiotic halfblood.”

Across the balcony, the chicken lets out a _pruuk pruuk_.

“Yeah, yeah,” Caelum fixes the bird with a glare. “What would you know? You’re a chicken.”

_Pruuk!_

Caelum tries to return to his book, but the chicken is still there, watching him. It’s unnerving.

With a huff, Caelum closes the book and tosses it into his lap.

“Why the fuck would she come stay with me if that idiotic king-shitter is courting her?” Caelum asks the chicken, frustration coloring his voice. He wishes he has something to punch. “And who gave that stupid, ignorant halfblood permission to take over my bed, huh? I should just tell her to go stay with the Aldermaster and his fuck-up kid.”

The chicken _pruuk_ s sadly and ruffles its feathers.

They sit in companionable silence for a moment.

“Why do I care so much?” Caelum asks eventually, staring at the chicken. If he stares hard enough, he can pretend that he’s looking into Harry’s eyes, and he’s asking her this. She’d probably have an answer. Or a teasing comment about their friendship.

_Pruuk!_

“No, it’s not because we’re friends,” Caelum tells the chicken. He sits upright and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “She’s more like a thorn in my side.”

An indignant _pruuk_.

“Why does she have to go around kissing _him_ , though?” Caelum buries his face in his hands. “Why can’t she go around kissing someone respectable? Someone who deserves her attention? Someone who actually appreciates potions?”

_Someone like me._

The words linger between him and the chicken.

The chicken doesn’t respond, and Caelum lifts his head to inspect it. Its head is tilted to one side, as if confused, and its awkwardly shuffling its feet. As Caelum watches, his eyes are drawn to a glittering, silver ring around the bird’s foot. A familiar ring with the Lestrange crest on it.

“Hang on—” Caelum starts, reaching out with an _accio_.

The chicken _pruuk_ s in alarm and takes off, holding onto the ring. It’s _his_ ring, and Caelum swears he had it locked inside his desk.

With the chicken long gone, Caelum races to his desk, unlocking the top drawer with a silent wave of his wand.

His ring is not there.

Fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

“I thought you were in here brewing, but there’s nothing in your cauldron,” Harry is sitting on his new, makeshift bed in the middle of the potions lab. It’s late, and Caelum is ready to crawl into bed and sleep. A fire crackles happily in the hearth.

Caelum resists the urge to rip his own perfect hair out. Why can’t she just get the hint and leave him alone? Harry blinks up at him, head tilted in adorable confusion, “So why have you been sleeping in here?”

“What?” Caelum is taken aback. Does she not think it’s inappropriate for them to share a bed? Especially when someone else is courting her? He puffs up in indignation, “It might be difficult for your dirty halfblood mind to grasp the fact it’s _not_ appropriate to share a bed if we’re not…”

Harry blinks innocently, green eyes wide and shimmering with childish yearning, and Caelum’s face lights up with a blush.

“Dating?” Harry supplies helpfully.

Caelum splutters at the egregious word, his face turning even redder.

“So what you’re saying,” Harry’s face is alight with pure mischief. Caelum hates it. “Is that we should be dating.”

Caelum isn’t doing anything at all except leaning against the bench top, but at her words, he loses balance and topples unceremoniously to the side. There’s nothing to reach for except a glass jar of newt eyes, and they both go down, Caelum shouting—no, screaming—his denial. He just isn’t sure if he’s responding to Harry or if he’s protesting the untimely demise of his newt eyes.

He lies there, surrounded by his ruined newt eyes.

“Why haven’t you dated anyone?” Harry’s face appears upside-down in his line of vision. She’s grinning down at him, deliberately ignoring the newt eyes and broken glass.

Caelum glares back up at her. It’s fortunate that the jar of newt eyes are only a few knuts. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have hesitated cursing her right then and there. 

“Why do you care?”

“I’m only wondering,” Harry waves a hand and the mess disappears. They stay like that though: Caelum, rubbing a hand over his forehead in silent, frustrated agony, and Harry, hovering over him, grinning. “You never talk about girls. Do you even know any?”

Caelum scowls and wiggles out from under her, sitting up with an irritated huff, “You’re such a headache. Of course I know other females.”

Harry settles down by his side, and they sit next to each other, mere inches apart. Their hands are even closer, and Caelum can _feel_ her warmth. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by the temptation to take her hand.

“Any cute ones?” Harry raises her eyebrows suggestively. “Anyone catch your eye?”

“No!” Caelum’s ears are growing warm again. It’s a complete lie. There’s one girl that has piqued his interest, and she’s sitting next to him. He crosses his arms and squints at the bottom of his mattress. “Most of them don’t even know the difference between Queen Anne’s Lace and hemlock.”

Harry makes a noise in the back of her throat, clearly disapproving at the notion. Caelum is entirely gratified that she understands his struggle. This is what makes Harry so great.

“So you have subpar standards,” Harry nods sagely, ignoring his splutters. She turns to him and balances her chin on the heel of her hand. “What’s Caelum Lestrange’s ideal girl?”

“Huh?” Caelum isn’t sure he has heard her correctly. His cheeks turn warm yet _again_. Why does Harry have such an effect on him? He stares at her suspiciously, “Are you planning to blackmail me?”

“No,” Harry denies, losing the small smile that has been teasing her lips. “Don’t friends usually talk about stuff like this?”

He scowls, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Neither would I,” Harry says thoughtfully. “Leo never asks me anything like this.”

Caelum’s mood instantly sours again, and he turns to study the flooring.

“Someone as beautiful as me,” he snaps, miserable. “Appreciates potions. Ideally pops out a child and leaves me the hell alone.”

“I’m surprised,” Harry admits after a pregnant pause. Caelum turns to her, an unasked question lingering in the space between them. She shrugs. “I thought ‘pureblood’ would be on the top of that list.”

Caelum opens his mouth, ready to retort that _of course_ being pureblood is at the top of the list. He closes his mouth. It occurs to him that it…isn’t. Not anymore.

“None of them have the proper appreciation for potions,” Caelum sniffs haughtily. “What’s the point of having a wife if she’s just going to use my stir rod as a fire poker?”

Harry chuckles a little, straightening and leaning back on the bench. Caelum isn’t sure what she finds so funny, but there’s a strange, warm feeling in the center of his chest. He wants to make her laugh more.

They lapse into silence again.

“We’re not dating,” Harry says to the mattress.

Caelum can’t help the small leap he feels in his heart, but he says nothing.

“Leo and me, I mean,” she elaborates a second later. “He was trying to convince me, but I don’t think I can focus on him and potions.”

“Potions is everything,” Caelum agrees easily. “I’m writing for my Mastery exam in a month.”

Harry is visibly excited at this, “Already?”

“Of course,” Caelum puffs out his chest in pride. “I’m the most promising apprentice anyway.”

Harry wrinkles her nose in playful doubt, and Caelum is surprisingly not offended.

“Well, _I’m_ taking my OWLs and NEWTs next week,” Harry states flippantly. Caelum stares at her. He hasn’t seen her spend a single moment studying for them. Whatever. Let the idiotic halfblood fail her exams.

Harry sighs and a moment later, a weight settles on Caelum’s shoulder.

He freezes at her touch. Her hair is tickling the side of his neck, and it smells clean, like mint and potions. Caelum leans in—just a little.

“Are you going to come back to bed?” Harry asks sleepily, snuggling closer to Caelum. He knows he should push her away. He knows he should snap some obscene comment about her blood status. But he doesn’t.

Caelum stares down at Harry, debating on whether to jostle her head in order to wrap an arm around her. He bites the inside of his cheek. Why did he want to do that again?

“…yes,” he mutters grumpily. He does miss his bed something terrible.

Harry doesn’t respond. Caelum can only assume she’s falling asleep.

His eyes take in her body greedily. She’s wearing one of his old quidditch hoodies, one that bears his faded name and the number ’07.’ It’s too large for her and makes her look much smaller than she actually is. The way she’s positioned though…

Caelum glares down at the baby blue underwear that is poking out from under the hoodie.

“Potter,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Are those my boxers?”


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Pst_.”

Caelum wakes to the sensation of icicles prodding his cheeks. He bats them away halfheartedly, rolling to his side and attempting to burrow further into his blankets.

“Caelum, wake up!”

But he most certainly does not want to wake up. It isn’t time to tend to the new, murky-blue potion he has set up in his lab. That one still has to simmer for a week. He opens his eyes a crack. No sunlight makes it past the dainty white curtains. It’s definitely not time to wake up yet. He squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Caelum,” the voice comes again, accompanied by a slight shake to his shoulder. What are his Durmstrang roommates playing at? He has cursed them before, and he’ll do it again. Instinctively, he fumbles around for his wand.

Something hard pokes the side of his neck, and he’s awake enough to realize that it’s the tip of a wand. His heartbeat jumps to his throat, and he peeks through his lashes to get a good look at his assaulter.

Harry grins back down at him and takes the wand away from his neck. It can’t be her wand, unless she has gone shopping in the past week. Which he knows she hasn’t. Simply because she doesn’t need one and spends all her free time brewing or reading. She doesn’t even have time to get her own clothes…so why was she wearing an old t-shirt that isn’t his, tucked into a pair of loose trousers?

Caelum narrows in on the tip of the wand, which is only the slightest big unfamiliar because he isn’t used to it being pointed at himself. Because it’s his wand. He recognizes the smooth hornbeam anywhere, because he polishes it at least once a week, _and_ he can sense the general _unrightness_ his wand feels in Harry’s hands. It’s like the wand is bucking, but not physically. A moment later, he sees small, red gashes forming on her hand. Harry makes no sign that it hurts.

“What the hell?” Caelum is wide awake in seconds and snatches the wand out of her hand. It lets out silver sparks as it reunites with him. He scowls down at Harry, who is silently healing the cuts. “Crazy halfblood—don’t you know you’re supposed to let go of things that are hurting you?”

He glares down at his wand for a moment, angry that it has hurt her.

“It was just warning me,” Harry says glibly, smiling down at the wand. “It wasn’t going to hurt me.”

What a fucking idiot.

“What the fuck do you want, brat?” Caelum is irritated. A quick look outside the window lets him know that it’s not even dawn yet, and he’s only ever awake this early to check up on a potion.

As if she has forgotten, Harry bounces to her feet with a little _oh!_ She’s standing on their bed now. She bounces once, on her heel, then points an accusing finger at Caelum, “I challenge you to a duel.”

Caelum blinks dumbly at her finger. Her nail is trimmed short, he notices with approval. Not that he would ever approve of crazy halfblood antics.

Sensing his confusion, Harry points at something behind her with her other hand. His new brewing boots float into view.

“I challenge you to a duel for the honor of your boots!” Harry announces again. She flops down and bounces on her bottom. The boots do lazy circles around their heads.

Caelum stares at the raven-haired girl, then looks up at the boots, then back at Harry.

She elaborates, “If I win, then I get the boots. If you win, you can keep them.”

She’s crazy.

“You know,” Caelum pulls the blankets up, fully intending to snuggle back into the bed and sleep for five more hours. “You can go buy yourself a pair of boots, idiot. We’re a five-minute walk from the shop.”

Harry pulls down the blanket, exposing him to the cold. The hair on Caelum’s arms prickle upright, and he realizes that he isn’t wearing a shirt. He resists the urge to snatch the blankets back and cover himself up again.

“It’s more fun this way,” she states, bouncing again so that Caelum grunts in annoyance. “Besides, when I win, _you_ can go buy yourself new boots.”

Caelum resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead, fixes Harry with a glare. He’s still a little bleary-eyed from the abrupt awakening, and he has to stop the intimidation with a yawn.

“No,” he says, renewing his glower. “It’s not a fair trade. What do I get out of it?”

Harry looks completely mystified. She looks at the boots, then back at him, lost. “You get to keep your boots. They’re the best things in the whole world.”

Caelum isn’t sure how to respond to that. Clearly, the halfblood has a skewed sense of priority. Potions is obviously the best thing in the world.

“If you win, I’ll owe you a favor,” Harry says, still smiling.

Caelum looks at her sharply. Does she understand what she’s gambling away? A favor is a big deal, and Caelum is not a bad dueler. Durmstrang has a class specifically for dueling, and he’s been in the top ten students for all seven years. (Mother had been _furious_ when she learned he wasn’t ranked first).

“I thought living in the Alleys made you smarter, not dumber,” Caelum grumbles under his breath, pretending not to notice the way Harry’s smile drops. He almost feels bad for bringing up the touchy subject. Louder, he says, “Fine. But we don’t have room here.”

The flat, while spacious and luxurious, does not have the space for a duel. Caelum also isn’t keen on the idea of accidentally destroying or losing his valuables. (He’s still cursing that chicken for stealing his ring. He can’t _accio_ it because apparently there are enchantments on his ring, and he has already tried _accio_ -ing the chicken, but that hadn’t worked either.)

“That’s okay,” Harry’s smile is back on her face, and she bounces again. “We can find a spot in the Lower Alleys.”

Caelum isn’t too sure about destroying her in a public location, but if that’s what she wants…

“Let me get ready,” he acquiesces. He already has an idea about what he’ll use his favor on.

Harry grins and jumps on top of him, bouncing in delight. Caelum is not amused.

An hour later, he’s ready, and they set off to find a quiet spot in the alleys. Caelum’s boots are floating around behind them, and Harry is holding him by the arm, humming and skipping happily. Luckily, it’s still early, and there isn’t much life to the civil side of the alleys, so he can hope there won’t be any more gossip about the two of them. He almost died, choking on water, when he read the first one in _Witch Weekly._ Not that he reads those silly things.

Caelum finds his own lips twitching upwards involuntarily at Harry’s excitement. When he realizes this, he mentally slaps himself and forcefully pulls his face into a scowl.

“You’re going to give yourself early wrinkles like that,” Harry says, pulling him past a statue and into a clearing that looks like a large, outdoor amphitheater. “This is a nice place, right?”

Caelum has to admit that yes, it would do nicely for a quick duel.

They climb onto the stage, and the boots settles on the first row of seats, as if it’s a spectator. Caelum isn’t even going to question it.

“First one to surrender?” Harry calls from the opposite side of the stage. She isn’t holding a wand. Caelum wonders if this is fair on his part.

“As much as I want you gone, Lord Potter would kill me,” Caelum mutters sardonically. His voice carries further than he intends, and Harry gives a wicked grin. Her eyes seem to glow with untethered excitement as she produces a dagger in her left hand.

Free-dueling? Caelum barely has time to think about how his mother would _crucio_ him for participating in such an unrefined sport before Harry twirls on the spot with surprising grace. He only has a fraction of a second to remember that yes, Harry can apparate without a license, before he feels cold steel biting into his neck.

“Surrender,” Harry says serenely. Something in her tone gives him pause. It’s cool. It’s confident. And it brings the image of the Pretender, Rigel Black, to the forefront of his mind. Caelum will freely admit that he watched the tasks in Diagon Alley. He had to keep track of his competition after all.

A moment later, Harry lets go of him, and Caelum rubs his throat, surprised that no blood has been drawn. Satisfied that he hasn’t been slashed, he whirls around, furious, “That doesn’t count! You didn’t say we were going to be free-dueling.”

Harry blinks unapologetically at him, palming her knife, “You didn’t ask.”

Caelum splutters. Any civilized human being would assume that a duel would be without a physical weapon.

“Again,” he demands. He won’t be tricked like this. “And we’re not free-dueling.”

Harry scowls back up at him, her chin tilting upwards in defiance. She pokes him in the chest with a finger, “I won that match fair and square, Caelum Lestrange. I win the boots.”

Caelum doesn’t understand why his stomach flutters strangely at her touch and at the way she says his name.

“Whatever. Who cares about the damn boots?” Caelum just wants to restore his pride. “I demand another match.”

Harry pushes up her glasses, a dubious frown on her face. She inspects him, up and down multiple times until Caelum bristles with rage, then nods, “Fine. If I win, I get to keep one of your sweatshirts.”

That is a strange demand, but Caelum nods, “And if I win, you still owe me a favor.”

A roguish grin makes its way onto Harry’s face, and she holds out a hand, “Deal.”

Caelum shakes it, determined to knock that pretty smile off of her face, “Deal.”

In the end, they duel for another five rounds.

Caelum loses an outfit.


	8. Chapter 8

Caelum isn’t sure how he feels about Bambino Bones. The restaurant is dim, yet clean, and the booth he is sitting at is nice and secluded. It almost doesn’t bother him that the silverware is fashioned to look like bones and the bare lightbulb that hangs above the table is shaped like a human skull.

Harry sits across from him, looking entirely unperturbed.

Bambino Bones is the newest restaurant in Hogsmeade and after a raving review from Aldermaster Hurst (at least, according to Harry), Caelum had secured them a spot during lunch.

Why? Because Harry had given him the Look, citing that she had received twelve OWLs and seven NEWTs and deserved a nice lunch out. Caelum doesn’t even try to mention she hadn’t studied for any of them, so did she really deserve a celebration?

Caelum still isn’t sure what the Look is comprised of—just that whenever she does it, he loses focus and dumbly agrees to everything she says. Part veela, he swears.

“This looks interesting,” Harry says cheerfully, pointing at a dish.

Caelum stares down at it, barely managing to keep the disgust from his face, “Wrigglin’ Worms.”

“It’s spaghetti,” Harry smiles up at him. She puts down the menu and leans back, shoving her hands in the jacket she has stolen from him. It’s one of his old Durmstrang quidditch jackets. It’s made partially from maroon dragon-hide and has his last name embroidered on the back in gold. Caelum knows he should be seething at the loss of his jacket but surprisingly, he doesn’t mind. He never wears it anymore, and it looks good on Harry. It’s also satisfying to see the wide berth people give her when they read ‘Lestrange.’

“It’s disgusting,” Caelum corrects with a sneer. It isn’t an earth-shattering revelation that the halfblood has no taste, and he’s about to say so when the waiter flounces over.

Caelum hasn’t given him so much as a glance, but Harry turns her face up to greet him with a polite smile, and he’s forced to turn and glare at the waiter.

The waiter looks like he’s closer to Harry’s age (though she claimed to be unsure about her own age) but doesn’t have any characteristic features of a proper pureblood. His face is round, and when he smiles, his cheeks dimple. Caelum glares at one of the dimples. It’s insufferable. He wants to curse his dimples off. And no, it isn’t because the waiter stares at Harry a little too long.

“Hello,” the boy says in an excruciatingly cheerful tone. “My name is Lukas, and I’ll be your waiter today.”

He hesitates, still looking at Harry, and Caelum’s hand inches towards the weird bone-knife.

“You’re Heiress Potter, right? The inventor of shaped imbuing,” Lukas smiles at Harry, and the halfblood fool smiles back! Doesn’t she understand what’s happening right now? Caelum tries to catch Harry’s eyes, but she’s too smitten with the waiter.

“Yes, I am.”

The brat is delighted that someone outside the Potions Guild has taken interest in her research.

“My sister is a big fan,” the idiot is jabbering on. “She says that she didn’t think it was possible for women to be in the potions field until you came along.”

Caelum crosses his arms, “Of course women can be in potions. Where did your idiot sister get the idea that she can’t?”

Both Harry and the dumbass waiter turn to stare at him, and Caelum is forced to admit that yes, maybe that isn’t the best thing he could have said.

Harry apologizes on his behalf, and Caelum is left to sulk after the idiot waiter leaves to put their orders in.

“What was that?” Harry rests her chin on her hand. She doesn’t look angry with him. Just confused.

Caelum scowls at her. Trust little miss homeless girl to be completely blind.

“He’s hitting on you,” he growls, grasping the stem of his wine glass with crushing force.

Harry looks completely mystified, “Hitting on me? We were just having a polite conversation about potions. It’s nice to know that my actions are inspiring other female potioneers.”

Caelum swirls the wine in his glass, then downs the whole thing with a gulp—no disappearing necessary. Something tells him that everything Harry does starts out with a conversation about potions.

The idiot waiter comes back with their food. Caelum has to fight the urge not to vomit at the sight of his charmed rice. They look like little maggots, and it really does not look appetizing. Predictably, the idiot waiter starts another conversation with Harry, and somehow they’ve wandered into the realm of charms and how impressed Harry is with his work. (Neither Caelum nor the idiot waiter realize how strange it is that Harry knows who cast the charms).

The idiot waiter falters when he sees Caelum’s _avada kedavra_ glare and promptly excuses himself.

“Isn’t he such a nice man?” Harry twirls a wriggling strand of spaghetti on her fork. It goes limp when she lifts her bone-fork to her lips.

Caelum scowls down at his rice-maggots, “He’s too old for you. And he has crooked teeth.”

Harry pauses, and Caelum has to marvel at her ignorance.

“He’s not that much older, and I didn’t notice his teeth,” Harry considers, ignoring the way Caelum chokes on another sip of wine. She smiles brightly at him. “He does seem to have a lot of knowledge about charms. I should ask if I can owl him!”

“No!” Caelum’s voice sticks to the back of his throat like syrup. “No. No owl-ing. I forbid it!”

This is evidently the wrong thing to say.

Harry’s glare seem to burn right into his flesh, and Caelum loses the ability to breathe as she primly places her bone fork back on the table. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as she says quietly, “What?”

Caelum hasn’t ever seen Harry like this. She burns with the fury of a thousand suns, and Caelum can’t do anything but sit and stare.

When he doesn’t give her an answer, she reaches into her moleskin pouch and tosses a few galleons on the table. It’s about five times the amount that they actually owe, but Harry doesn’t spare a second glace as she stands and snatches Caelum’s hand, basically dragging him out of the restaurant.

Outside, in the sun and the heat, Caelum wrenches his hand from hers and takes a step back. She’s glaring at him.

“I only meant that he’s not good enough for you,” Caelum scowls. This is an obvious fact. “If you’re going to pick someone to marry, you should at least pick someone who has common sense about potions!”

“Marry?” Harry sounds like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She shakes her head, “I wasn’t talking to him because I want to _marry_ him. Is that your goal when you talk to girls?”

Caelum only ever talks to Harry, so he feels the point is moot. He takes a step towards her, face coloring.

“My point is,” Caelum has to reiterate, voice rising to match Harry’s. “You can do better.”

Harry steps forward, accepting the silent challenge Caelum has put forth, and there’s an unnatural wind stirring at the strands of her hair. “And that requires ‘forbidding me’? Please, you’re not my father. What’s it to you?”

Caelum doesn’t know when they got so close, but he can feel Harry’s small hand grasping his shirt, directly over his racing heart. She smells like mint and pickled toad, courtesy of their morning activities. Salazar, if he sniffed amortentia, this is exactly what it would smell like.

“You don’t get it, do you? You stupid halfblood.” Caelum glares down at her, hands automatically gripping her by the waist. She has a knife somewhere on her person, and he isn’t dumb enough to let her stab him and get away with it.

“Get what?”

There’s a moment of pure agony as Caelum mentally curses the girl for being a thick brick-head. And the moment passes because he can’t stay angry at Harry for long, especially when he has her in his arms like this. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and damn it, he can’t be the only one feeling this.

Caelum tugs her close and kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, I can't write romance to save my life skskks


	9. Chapter 9

**_Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor Taken? A Match Made in Cauldrons_ **

This isn’t happening. Caelum puts the _Daily Prophet_ down on his kitchen table and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He’s probably dreaming. Hallucinating, maybe. Or he accidentally huffed too many fumes last night while he was drunk brewing.

He opens his eyes again, finding the article title. It hasn’t changed.

Even worse is the picture directly below it. It’s huge, takes up half the page, and shows everything in beautifully clear detail. It’s taken from the side, presumably from the doorstep of one of the restaurants, and it says a lot that he and Harry didn’t notice when the photo was taken. He studies the photo, pleased that he looks his normal, beautiful self. His hair ruffled, he notices, but not distastefully so. His eyebrows are furrowed as his arms wrap around Harry’s waist. Caelum feels his face warm as he recalls the way Harry’s smaller frame fits against his.

Picture-Harry is glaring up at him, one hand barely visible from under his oversized jacket. She grips his shirt, and their picture selves exchange more words. Picture-Caelum is much taller than picture-Harry, and he has to lean forward in order to kiss her. It seems like a perfect, romantic scene until picture-Harry raises a knee, picture-Caelum doubles over in pain, and picture-Harry disapparates.

Caelum can still feel the aching in his nether region.

He settles on reading the rest of the article. He needs to know how much damage the _Prophet_ has done to him this time.

It’s a wonderful narrative centered around potions, which Caelum appreciates. What he doesn’t appreciate is the section on Harry’s old love interests, which includes both her pseudo-cousin (Caelum glares at the picture of Arcturus Black, who is unfortunately quite handsome) and the Pretender (Caelum resists the urge to burn _his_ picture).

Harry had never mentioned any relationship with the Pretender. Is that why she ran? Did she harbor feelings for him?

“What’s that?”

Caelum jumps so high up that he bangs his knees into the table, “Fuck!”

A fraction of a second later, Caelum realizes that Harry is finally home, and he can’t make this anymore awkward than it already is. She has been gone for twenty-four hours, and he has basically gone mad. He snatches the newspaper off the table and presses it to his chest, away from Harry’s curious eyes, “Nothing that concerns you.”

Harry crosses her arms, “I saw ‘cauldrons’ in the title. Is there news on the thickness of standard pewter cauldrons? I’ve been owling Master Thompson, and he said I should keep an eye out on the newest issues of Potions Quarterly, but—”

It doesn’t take a genius to know that Master Thompson is probably just humoring her. Harry blabbers on about safety issues as Caelum slowly tries to ball up the newspapers without her noticing.

She does, of course, and snatches the page from him.

“Oh.”

Caelum turns an attractive shade of red and tries not to melt into his seat.

“This jacket is too big for me,” Harry muses. Is that all she has to say?

She puts the newspaper down and shoves her hands back into the pockets of the same jacket. With a small grin that Caelum now associates with trouble, she says, “My father will be looking for you.”

Caelum blanches. An angry James Potter, Head Auror, after his ass is not a pleasant thought. What will happen when his mother finds out? His father? He feels the rest of his blood drain from his face. He’s a dead man walking.

“Your mother has been throwing curses at your bedroom window for the past half hour, by the way,” Harry sits down. She’s saying this like it’s not a big deal. And how did she get past his mother without losing her intestines? Caelum is completely baffled. Harry nods at his bedroom door, “You should thank your landlord for having such strong protection wards.”

Caelum finds this ironic. He’s pretty sure his landlord put in those protections so _he_ wouldn’t damage anything.

They sit in awkward silence. At least, Caelum finds it awkward. Harry looks like she hasn’t got a care in the world as she produces a tome from his jacket pocket and begins reading.

“Are you and the Pretender lovers?” Caelum blurts out, unable to stand the silence. He wants to know. No, he _needs_ to know.

Harry looks up, eyebrows shooting so far up that he’s afraid they’ll get lost in her hairline, “Rigel and me? Lovers?”

A pregnant pause.

Harry claps a hand to her mouth, evidently trying to control herself, but Caelum can see the smile reaching her eyes.

“Well?” He demands. “Is it true or not?”

“Is that what the _Prophet_ writes nowadays?” Harry asks, reaching for the paper.

“Potter, honestly,” Caelum is embarrassed to note that it sounds like he’s begging. Lestranges never beg.

Harry considers the photo of the Pretender. “You know, I never knew what his real face looked like. I bet he was handsome.”

Caelum can hear the teasing note in her voice. “Potter!”

“CAELUM LESTRANGE.”

Both Harry and Caelum jump at the sudden, booming voice. It’s amplified with a powerful _sonorous_ , which rattles the windows and the cute, cauldron shaped salt and pepper shakers Harry had insisted on buying.

“What the fuck?” Caelum stands, drawing his wand.

Harry reaches up and tugs at his arm, shaking her head frantically. This is even more worrying than the angry voice.

“CAELUM, YOU SHAME THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF LESTRANGE!”

 _Oh shit._ Now that’s a voice he recognizes.

Harry stops tugging at Caelum’s arm, and instead, holds onto him as they creep closer to the window in his bedroom. It’s the only one that looks down into Diagon Alley.

As soon as Caelum opens up his window, a purple spell comes rushing towards the window. The wards are powerful, and the spell fizzles out before it can make contact with the building.

Caelum dares to peek out of the window.

It’s the wrong choice.

For some ungodly reason, his mother and James Potter have teamed up. They’re standing under his window, eerily similar expressions of fury written on their faces. His mother is the one shooting spells at the open window, and Potter is doing nothing to stop her.

Caelum turns back to Harry, who has disentangled herself and is now bouncing up and down on his bed, anxiously nibbling her lower lip.

“If I die, you can have my collection.”

Harry brightens, “Even the dragon lungs?”

Caelum tries not to take her excitement to heart.

“I HOPE YOUR BOLLOCKS ARE BLUE, LESTRANGE!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I originally planned for this to be a 5 + 1   
> ha ha ha


	10. an aside

“I’m a criminal,” Harry moans, flopping down on the bed, face first. There’s a letter clutched in her hand that can only be from her father. Caelum can see the bold letters from where he lounges on his side of the bed. Her voice is muffled by a pillow, but he thinks he hears Harry groan, “ _Again!”_

Caelum wouldn’t be surprised if he learned that Harry is an internationally hunted criminal. She just gives off that impression, especially with her “oh, I accidentally revolutionized the potions community” attitude.

“What is it now?” Caelum asks, plucking the letter from her hand. It’s an official warning from the Ministry for apparating without a license.

Harry mumbles something into her pillow.

He doesn’t know why he says it, but he does. “Do you want some milk?”

It’s Harry’s favorite drink, and he knows she has a glass before bedtime every day.

Harry mumbles something, and he takes that as a yes.

“Not a house-elf,” Caelum mutters to himself, without any bite, as he saunters to the kitchen to heat up some milk. He doesn’t understand the appeal, but if it makes Harry happy, it keeps his sensitive spots safe.

No, he hasn’t gotten over that yet.

By the time he returns with two glasses of milk, Harry has stolen another one of Caelum’s shirts. It’s a dark green, which brings out Harry’s eyes, and it’s much too long for her. It dangles just above her knees, and Caelum can’t tell if she’s wearing shorts. His throat suddenly feels dry.

She places her glasses on the nightstand, rubs her eyes, lets out a weary sigh, and crawls into bed, not even excited by the prospect that there’s warm milk.

“Drink up,” Caelum tries, gently. Harry does not reach out for the floating glass of milk.

“I don’t want to be a criminal,” Harry mutters, curling up underneath the blankets. “I just want potions.”

Caelum has enough experience with females to realize that she doesn’t want the milk. All that wasted effort. Hmph, see if he’ll do anything for her again.

Caelum sets the milk on the nightstand and climbs into bed too. He freezes when Harry rolls over and stares him in the eye, “Would you help me if had to go on the run?”

He stares back at her, completely baffled. It seems like Harry does have a flair for dramatics.

“Potter,” he begins slowly. “Apparating without a license is just a small fine. You know that, right?”

Harry blinks up at him, eyes glassy.

Shit, why is she crying? Caelum panics. His ‘crying-girl’ education is sorely lacking.

Harry places her head against his chest, and Caelum finds himself awkwardly wrapping an arm around her. She’s pressed so close to his body, it’s slightly uncomfortable. It’s slightly too warm, and the palms of his hands are sweating. His heart is hammering in his chest, and Caelum is positive Harry can hear it.

“I’m sorry I kneed you,” Harry says, so softly that Caelum thinks he’s imagining things. “You scared me.”

This is the first time she’s properly addressing their kiss. Caelum’s face warms. He’s glad that she can’t see his face.

“Whatever, brat,” Caelum says, sighing. He is no longer sore, and as long as he can still function, he can’t stay mad at her. “You kick like a wimp anyway.”

Harry jerks upright, eyebrows raised. The tears have dried up, and she’s smiling. “Really? Want me to try again?”

Caelum instinctively flinches to protect himself, and Harry laughs, shaking her head.

“Shut the fuck up,” Caelum growls, relaxing. “You’d feel the same if someone took a potshot to your…”

He can’t bring himself to say anything uncouth.

Harry shrugs and snuggles back onto Caelum’s chest. He has calmed a little and is relaxing at her touch. He likes the way she plays with the loose flaps of his shirt and the way her breath tickles his skin. He likes the way she fits into his side, and the way their legs tangle together.

Is he the only one getting mixed signals?

Merlin, women are confusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a smol break for pure fluff


	11. Chapter 11

Lionel Hurst is waiting for Caelum outside the Potions Guild. Caelum spots him even before he starts down the stairs to the Guild. The annoying fucker is watching him from across the street, leaning against the window of a clothing shop, just waiting like the dunce he is. Caelum has half the mind to send a well-timed, wandless curse at the bronze-haired boy, but he has no doubt that the boy will play victim and sequester Lord Potter’s help. Merlin knows how much that man wants to kill him.

Caelum contemplates on turning his back and making his way back to Harry in their flat, but if there’s anything he has learned from his mother, it is that he should never turn his back on an enemy. So he crosses the street, shouldering his bag with the rough draft of his mastery thesis. He dons the darkest scowl he can, and as if his magic understands him, it crackles under his skin. The people crowding the street draw back from him, as if sensing danger. Everyone except Hurst.

Hurst straightens when Caelum approaches, a glib smile plastered on his face. Caelum would like nothing but to slap it off. No, that would be entirely uncouth. He would love to charm a needle to sew his lips together. No more unwelcomed advances on Harry.

“Lestrange,” Hurst acknowledges serenely. “You’re looking dapper today.”

The words are perfectly civil. The tone and the boy are not. Caelum suppresses a snort. “Cut the crap, Hurst. What do you want?”

“Just a word with one of the Potion Guild’s apprentices,” Hurst says.

Caelum is unmoved by his fake politeness.

Hurst loses the friendly smile and relaxed posture. Instantly, he morphs into something much more dangerous. Something sharper. His magic grates on Caelum’s nerves.

“Fine.” Hurst says, hand dropping idly to the handle of his wand. Caelum watches him warily, seeing the threat in his gesture. “I’m here to warn you to stay away from Harry.”

Caelum stares at him. Blinks once. Then twice.

“And you’re qualified to tell me this because…?” Caelum raises an eyebrow, continuing on before Hurst can get a word in. “I don’t think you’re qualified to tell either Harry or me if we can see each other or not. What are you—her father?”

Hurst seems amused at his statement, “It’s obvious that she didn’t want you anywhere near her.” He gestures vaguely at Caelum’s crotch.

Caelum splutters, “Harry and I talked about it. It’s none of your business.”

Hurst scowls, taking a step forward so that they were nose to nose. The tip of his wand pokes Caelum’s ribs, hard. He doesn’t cower. He has seen kneazles scarier than Hurst.

“Harry is one of my closest friends,” Hurst snaps, brown eyes blazing. “If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down and skin you alive.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Caelum retorts. “Besides, if you want Harry to spend less time with me, you should talk to _her_. She’s the one taking over my fucking life, anyway.”

The last part is a grumble, mostly to himself, but Hurst catches it. The wand digs deeper into his ribs. Caelum thinks he can smell smoke.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Caleum is about to answer when a very familiar _pruuk pruuk_ breaks their quiet argument. In synchrony, Caelum and Hurst look up. There’s a slight ledge that provides shade to the front of the shop, and on top of that ledge is the fucking chicken that stole his ring. He knows just by the offensive shade of its eyes.

It stares down at them, head cocked to the side as if confused by their close proximity.

Instantly, Hurst draws back like he has been hit with a stinging hex. His face is a delicate shade of rose. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Caelum stares at the bronze-haired boy. Has he gone mad? Taken some kind of mind-altering potion? Why is he talking to the chicken?

_Pruuk._

The chicken neatly hops off the ledge and lands on Caelum’s head.

“Ouch!” Caelum doesn’t expect the chicken’s sharp claws. “Fucking stupid chicken! You’re messing up my hair—”

_Pruuk pruuk!_

Hurst frowns at the chicken, still red in the face. “It wasn’t anything like that. I just wanted to tell him to—”

_Pruuk!_

Caelum scowls, unable to move even a fraction of an inch. Just in case the chicken decides to scratch up his head even more. He dares to glance upwards at the chicken, who is _glaring_ at Hurst? What the fuck was going on? Did someone slip _Caelum_ a mind-altering potion?

“You’re going to regret this,” Hurst warns the chicken. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“You’re fucking mad!” Caelum says through gritted teeth. Hurst ignores him.

_Pruuk!_

Great. Even the chicken is ignoring him.

Hurst scowls at them both, then turns away. Caelum’s hand is halfway to his wand when the chicken bends and _pecks_ _him_ on the head.

“Fuck!” Caelum jerks at the sharp beak. “What the fuck do you want? Who said you could use my head as a place to land?”

He’s still trying not to move, and instead of trying to look up at the chicken, he watches Hurst disappear in the crowd. Damn, it would have felt great to give him pustules or something.

As if it knew what he was thinking, the chicken pecks him again.

“Ow!”

Something silver flashes at the corner of his vision, and Caelum reaches out instinctively. A ring falls into the palm of his hand.

_Pruuk pruuk!_

The chicken seems like it’s trying to tell him something, but Caelum doesn’t speak chicken, so he only stares dumbly, down at his Lestrange family ring. Only it’s a lot less bulky than it once was. It seems like part of it has been cut off and half of the crest is just completely gone. Caelum is impressed that someone was able to make all these altercations. It was goblin-made, after all. What he isn’t happy about is that crest is gone, the sole raven on his ring has a small, glittering emerald that pulses with strange magic, and there’s a fucking chicken on his head.

As if sensing his ire, the chicken takes off, raking his scalp with its talons again.

Caelum watches the chicken, wholly perplexed, then leans forward to examine the inside of the ring, which is filled with small runes. He doesn’t know all of them, but from the little he does know, they’re all protection runes. Why would a chicken go through the trouble to scratch protection runes on his ring? Caelum puzzles over this for a moment before realizing how idiotic his own thoughts sounded. A chicken isn’t capable of magic.

He hesitates, then slips the ring on his finger. Nothing happens, but he can feel a layer of magic settling over his skin like a thin film.

Caelum takes it off again, frowning when the magic recedes. He feels strangely naked without it.

He puts the ring back on and gives the street another sweeping look, just to see if Hurst is still lingering. When he finds nothing, he turns and leaves. Maybe Harry will know more about this.


	12. Chapter 12

“Can chickens have magic?”

Harry puts her book down, glasses flashing in the sunlight. She’s lying down on a picnic blanket on the balcony, ankles crossed behind her. Golden light illuminates her, and Caelum’s mind blanks for a moment. She looks like a goddess.

“Pardon?”

Caelum’s face feels hot. “You heard me, brat. Can chickens have magic?”

Harry ponders this for a moment, tapping the end of a quill against her lips. Caelum stares a little bit too long at them. They look soft, and he wonders what would happen if he leans in right now—

“There are some kinds of chickens that have been modified with potions to produce magical eggs,” Harry offers, eyes bright behind her lenses. Caelum likes the way her eyes light up when she talks about potions. “But I haven’t heard about chickens that have inherent magic.”

Caelum takes a seat beside her, thinking hard. If the chicken isn’t magical, maybe it’s some sort of messenger bird, though using a raven instead of an owl is a strange choice. Whoever owns the raven must be a strange person. Or a very wealthy one.

His eyes slide involuntarily over Harry, who is back at work. She’s wearing one of his large sweatshirts again—a plain green one that he thought he would wear, but never did. It looks like a short dress on her, and Caelum tries not to gulp audibly as he follows the curve of her legs, up to her pretty bu—

Caelum’s eyes snap away from her body, and he mentally shakes himself. What’s wrong with him?

He zeros in on Harry’s hands instead. One holds up her book, and the other holds her quill.

There’s a gleaming silver ring on one of Harry’s fingers. One that matches the ring on Caelum’s finger, albeit hers is daintier.

Several things go through Caelum’s head at once. One: the despicable chicken and Harry have the same vibrant, green eyes. Two: both have the tendency to take things that don’t belong to them. Three: who else is smart enough to work around goblin magic?

Harry is an animagus.

“So,” Caelum says, nonchalantly. “Why do you want matching rings?”

Harry glances at him, surprise written on her face for a fraction of a second. Caelum smirks back at her.

“So you can Portkey home if you’re in trouble,” Harry answers, returning back to her book. She’s unfazed.

“To Dartmoor?” Caelum’s eyebrows furrow. He’s never going to use this Portkey.

Harry doesn’t take her eyes off of her book, but he sees her rolling them. “No, you dummy. To me.”

_Oh._

Caelum can’t help the blush that travels up his neck and settles in his cheeks.

They don’t speak again, but Caelum doesn’t mind. And he certainly doesn’t mind when Harry sighs, puts down her quill and book, and places her head in his lap.

They stay like that until the sky dims and the stars begin to twinkle above them.

Caelum doesn’t remember when Harry sits up, but he does remember the haze of mint and lavender right before her lips meet his. Soft hands play with the hair at the nape of his neck, and Harry’s eyes gleam with star-fire underneath the night sky.

Their lips meet again and their bodies tangle into each other’s.

Caelum wishes this moment could last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu


	13. Chapter 13

The closer Caelum gets to taking his Mastery exam and handing in his Mastery thesis, the less he sleeps. He would probably be on a strict Pepper-Up potion regiment too, if Harry didn’t hide all of the potions. She knows he has more important work than to be brewing a Pepper-Up potion, the cheeky chit. Caelum suspects that she misses snuggling into his side at night.

True to form, neither Harry nor Caelum have spoken about the passionate kisses they’ve shared. Caelum is frustrated, to say the least, but he’s too busy preparing for his exam that he doesn’t spend much time dwelling on it. Besides, if Harry isn’t going to say anything, why should he?

“Do you have any friends at Durmstrang?” Harry leans over his shoulder, peeking at the notes in front of him. She smells of comfort and home, and involuntarily, Caelum’s muscles relax. A tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying melts away.

Caelum turns in his new swiveling chair—something Harry has procured for him. It is soft and comfortable. Much better than the wooden stool he had been operating on.

Harry looks different today, and it’s mostly due to the fact that she’s wearing pants. Tight pants, Caelum notes, appreciating the way her bum looks while she is preoccupied. She has taken one of his old Quidditch jerseys—one that he probably got as a third year—and tucked it into her pants. He’s pleased that his last name is emblazoned on the back. He’s less pleased to see that she has covered it up with a ridiculous jean jacket that’s two sizes too big for her. She claims that she found it at a muggle thrift store with her cousin. Caelum doesn’t understand the need to visit the muggle world, much less a _thrift_ store. Her family has enough money to buy all of Diagon Alley and then some. Besides, she doesn’t need such riffraff when his clothes are obviously far superior.

With some satisfaction, Caelum notes the dainty ring on Harry’s left middle finger. It’s just a thin silver band, but Caelum feels a weird sense of deep satisfaction at seeing it on her hand. For a brief moment, he wonders what it would be like if it were on her ring finger instead. He shakes himself. What a ridiculous notion. The lack of sleep is really getting to him.

Her ring doesn’t have a diamond on it, and Harry only deserves the best.

“Caelum?” Harry turns her beautiful eyes on him.

“Huh?” Caelum blinks, as Harry reaches for him and places a cool hand on his forehead. Her hand slides down to his jaw.

“You look horrible with stubble,” she muses, turning his head this way and that. Caelum instinctively scowls even though he knows that’s that truth. “Well? Do you have any friends?”

“At Durmstrang?” Caelum bats Harry’s hand away but regrets it instantly. He misses her touch already and almost reaches out for it again. “Sure, the Quidditch team, maybe. My dormmates. Why?”

Harry shrugs innocently, “Just wondering. Can I have their names?”

Caelum isn’t sure if it’s the lack of sleep or her pleading eyes, but he finds himself writing down their names obediently, not bothering to ask why.

-x-

He regrets not asking.

Caelum can only stare, open-mouthed at his flat. It seems like a tornado has ripped through his belongings. His walls are now a mismatched maroon and green—horrendous colors that clashes horribly. Silver and gold balloons shaped like cauldrons and vials float around in circles, bouncing up and down happily while the Weird Sisters plays somewhere in the kitchen. There’s a giant banner hanging from one side of the kitchen to the other that reads “CONGRATZ ON FINISHING YOUR MASTERY FUCKER!”

Caelum does not think Harry would write such a thing.

But the men standing beside her, wearing pink party hats, definitely would.

“Surprise!” Harry cheers, sending golden sparks out of the tips of her fingers. She almost looks respectable today, clad in her brewing robes and the boots she had stolen (Caelum does not count her free-dueling attempts as real dueling). She ruins it all with his oversized Quidditch jacket.

She spins around, and the golden ‘Lestrange’ flashes at him. Maybe it isn’t a bad look after all.

Kostov, Caelum’s fellow beater, waggles his thick, unplucked eyebrows at him, gesturing at Harry’s back when she isn’t looking. Caelum understands the question, and promptly flushes, doing his best to kill Kostov with just his glare. It isn’t anyone’s business if he and Harry were together or not.

Which simply means he doesn’t know what they are.

Caelum greets his teammates one by one, surprised by the grins they give him. He hadn’t been close to any of them, save for Kostov. It isn’t until he catches Dimitrov leering at Harry that he understands.

“Are you currently seeing anyone, Heiress Potter?” Dimitrov is speaking Bulgarian, but the translation spell Harry weaves into existence translates his words.

Quizzically, Harry tilts her head. “I see a lot of people every day? What do you mean?”

Caelum is all too hasty to break the two of them apart. Dimitrov saunters off after shooting a dark glower at Caelum.

“Is he okay?” Harry stares after Dimitrov. “Do you think he’s losing sight? Maybe we should take him to St. Mungo’s.”

Caelum wants to smack a hand to his forehead, but that would be entirely undignified for someone at his stature. He takes Harry by the shoulders instead, ignoring how she tenses at the sudden movement before relaxing into his touch.

“Potter,” he stares into her eyes. Her cheeks are an adorable rosy pink. “He’s asking you if you’re available.”

Harry is _still_ confused. “I’m available any time by owl.”

“No,” Caelum can’t stop his eyes from rolling. “He’s asking you if you’re single. If anyone’s courting you.”

Harry blinks, jaw slack. “Oh. Why didn’t he just say so?”

Merlin, for the brightest potioneer of the century, Harriet Potter is as dense as the strange, decorative lead cauldron he has in storage.

“Am I?” Harry asks after a beat, eyes tracing Caelum’s face. “Single?”

Caelum reddens under her gaze. Is she? Caelum thinks he has made his feelings pretty clear. Dumb chit.

“I suppose you are,” he frowns, unsure.

Harry’s eyes immediately drop down to inspect his new brewing boots. Caelum feels her body tensing underneath his hands, and a fraction of a second later, she’s twisting herself out of his grip.

“I suppose so,” Harry echoes, smiling. It’s painfully fake, and Caelum finds himself taking a step forward to call her back.

But Harry is already turning, and a moment later, she’s gone. Caelum stands there, arm still outstretched. He feels strangely hollow.

He’s still staring at the space Harry had been occupying when he realizes it’s too quiet, save the horrible Weird Sisters, wailing in the background. He turns to find his entire team staring at him.

“What?” he snaps. “Why the fuck are you all still here?”

As his old Durmstrang team files out in silence, Caelum can’t help but think his answer was wholly incorrect.


End file.
